The Amulet
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: This is set after 5.22, Swan Song. Anything else would be spoiling it!
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **This was written a while ago, but not posted – and it would _still_ be unposted if it hadn't been for Cheryl assuring me that it wasn't as bad as I thought and Amanda thinking up a title for it. Thank you both!

This is my first attempt at _Supernatural_ fiction – apologies in advance for discrepancies and mistakes.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

**Spoilers:** Up to 5.22.

**Summary:** This is set after 5.22, _Swan Song_. Anything else would be spoiling it!

* * *

**Prologue**

It's two in the morning and Dean can't sleep.

Not that that's unusual. _Can't_ pretty much sums up the last eleven weeks of his life. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't laugh. Can't do anything but get from one day to the next and count it an achievement that he manages to drag himself out of bed in the morning.

He barely recognizes himself now. He has breakfast with Lisa and Ben – or, to be honest, he pushes food around his plate while Ben, perpetually running late, bolts his toast and eggs and Lisa looks at him with badly-hidden concern. Then he goes to the garage where he's got a day job and tinkers with the underbellies of cars, tightening and loosening and oiling purely on instinct, while his entire mind is focused on _not thinking about it_. He walks home in time for dinner, a meal which will be half a bread roll washed down with more whisky than is good for him.

He knows Lisa is worried, but that's not something he can openly admit. If he acknowledges her worries he'll have to talk about them, and he can't do that. He can't talk about the nightmares that keep him up all night. He can't talk about why he's locked the Impala in Lisa's garage after stuffing its backseat with weapons, clothes, books, every relic of his previous life. He can't talk about _why_ he's still with Lisa and Ben when it's clear that every fibre of him wants to be somewhere else.

It's the only way he can keep his promise. He's never been good at dealing with grief. He's been strong, sure. All his life he's been strong for Sam. He doesn't know if he can still be strong now that –

He stops the thought just in time.

If he doesn't think it, he can almost pretend that Sam's in Stanford, finally studying law, and the lack of communication is only because Sam's mad at him, not because –

He checks himself again.

Trying to occupy himself, he looks at the newspaper he's been pretending to read for the past half-hour. Headlines jump out at him, and his brain, trained to sense the unspoken details, runs through them automatically.

_Four commuters murdered by mystery gang._

There's a photograph, the inside of a train, with an esoteric symbol spray-painted on the back of a seat. It looks vaguely familiar: Dean knows he's seen it somewhere, but he can't for the life of him remember where. Sam would know. Sam would have identified as soon as he saw it, he would probably have known the date of its first known appearance and the name of the person who drew it. Sam would –

_Stop_, Dean orders himself, but it's too late now. Memories come flooding in and he can't stop them: Sam absent-mindedly reeling off names and dates as he flicks through a book on Wiccan lore, Sam laughing at Dean's attempts to pass himself off as an Art History major, Sam _laughing_, Sam next to him in the Impala...

And Dean knows tonight will be another night when he'll stay up till dawn, drinking.

He's about to get to his feet to pour himself a whisky when he senses something in the room. Eleven weeks of soft living haven't overridden his hunter's instincts. He grabs the nearest thing that could serve as a weapon – which turns out to be a breadknife Lisa forgot to put away – stands, and turns.

The room is empty.

"I'm not going to hurt you," a voice says mildly. Dean nearly drops the knife in shock as he whirls. The lights are beginning to flicker, but he can still recognize the figure standing in the doorway, eyeing him with a sickening mixture of pity and amusement. "You can put the knife down."

"Castiel." Dean knows he doesn't sound friendly. He doesn't care. Castiel is alive when Sam isn't, and Castiel has gone back to serving the God who allowed that to happen. Castiel has _nerve_ turning up here. "What do you want?"

"We need your help."

For a moment Dean can't believe he's hearing right. When he finally finds his voice, he demands, "My _help_? You want something from me? Why the _hell_ would I do anything for you?"

"You may have noticed an increase in the number of unnatural accidents lately," Castiel continues, unperturbed. "Fires, storms, children drowning in four inches of water, hikers missing –"

"I don't care."

"You are still angry."

The angel sounds a little surprised, and Dean snaps. "Angry? Yeah, Cas, I _am_ angry! My brother's dead, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You are not the only man who has ever lost someone, Dean."

"No, but I'm the only man who has ever had to sit and watch while his brother threw himself into Lucifer's cage for an eternity of torture, and I'm sure as hell the only man who's had to sit around not even _trying_ to do anything about it! So whatever your problem is, you deal with it. I – don't – _care_."

"Dean, I'm not asking you to do anything. I only want to borrow the amulet again."

"The amulet?" Dean's tone is blank, but his mind isn't. It's full of all the regret and gut-wrenching guilt he feels every time he thinks of the amulet, of throwing it away – with his back to Sam, because there was no way he could have looked into his brother's eyes and done that – in a fit of pique that he would do _anything_ to take back. "You said it's worthless."

"I think God may be willing to let us find him, now that the Apocalypse has been averted. He may be able to stop this anarchy. But for that I need the amulet."

"I don't have it," Dean says, and the admission hurts.

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"Dean –"

"I don't _know_, all right? If that's what you're here for, you're wasting your time. Now get out!"

Castiel sighs, glances at the window, hesitates. After a long look at Dean, he shakes his head and draws back into the shadows. A moment later he's gone.

Dean glowers at the air where he disappeared. He knows he's being unfair to the angel, but he doesn't care. Cas is alive – Cas is healthy – Cas is stronger than ever. And Sam is suffering unimaginable torment at the hands of two very angry archangels. That justifies any amount of unfairness in Dean's book.

After a minute, Dean staggers outside. The keys to the Impala are in his pocket – they're always in his pocket. He gets to the garage, although he's not quite sure how, stumbles in, and slides into his car.

It wasn't just _his_ weapons and clothes that Dean locked in the car eleven weeks ago. It was everything Sam ever owned, or touched, or talked about – everything that might remind him of what he's lost. There's Sam's laptop, the duffle bag that, if Dean opens it, is going to smell of aftershave and old leather and little brother, the few books that Sam picked up while they were travelling, and, on top of the heap, the shirt that Dean was wearing on that day that he tries not to remember, the shirt that was the last thing that Sammy ever touched.

Alone, in the dark, Dean finally lets himself cry.

* * *

TBC

* * *

What do you think? Please let me know!


	2. Hell

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I wasn't expecting so many for my first venture into the fandom, and it is _very_ encouraging. *g*

**Warnings:** Language and a bit of violence, maybe? Nothing worse than the show, though.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Hell**

There's pain, and then there's _pain_.

Sam knows pain. Pain is when he gets thrown back into a bookshelf by a shapeshifter. Pain is when Dean, in a fit of anger, punches him in a parking lot. _Pain _is when he feels like every muscle is on fire, like he's being ripped apart from the inside. _Pain_ is when he knows that he will never see his big brother again. Ever.

_Pain_ is a bitch.

Lucifer is merrily cruel, evil glee shining in every line of his face whenever Sam screams. Michael is disinterested, clinical. Lucifer tortures him for pleasure; Michael because he considers it a just punishment for Sam's refusal to play his part. Lucifer burns cold. Michael burns hot.

Neither of them lacks creativity.

Abruptly, the _pain_ stops, leaving in its wake a dull ache that is the closest Sam has come to comfort in – he does not know how long it has been. He lost track of time years ago. He lost track of most things. Adam is not here: he knows that much, and is grateful for it. He hopes Adam is in heaven.

There is movement outside the cage. Sam turns his head.

Through the fiery ring surrounding him he can see the scurrying shapes of demons. Cage or no cage, this is Lucifer's domain. The devil cannot leave the ring, the ring that burns alternately hot and cold depending on which of the archangels is doing the torturing, but he can give orders and see that they are obeyed.

But something else has caught Sam's eye – a flash of movement that is _not_ a demon. He twists, trying to see what it is, but a growl from Lucifer has him writhing in agony. Through it he hears a voice, dimly. It does not speak English or Latin or any other language Sam understands. It is Michael who responds, in the same language, but Sam catches one word.

_Gabriel_.

Gabriel is alive. Somehow that doesn't surprise him.

It _does_ surprise him that Gabriel is here. Sam can't imagine what he wants. Sure, Michael and Lucifer are his brothers, but the angels have never struck Sam as being strong on the concept of family.

Then Gabriel speaks again, in English – _is _it English? Sam cannot be certain; he only knows that he understands it.

"Castiel has asked Dean Winchester. Months ago, by _their_ time. He has asked anyone who might conceivably have any idea – and if I hear _one_ more cherub complaining about having to sort through garbage heaps..."

"You want to talk to him." Michael sounds reluctant.

"Yes. I do."

"I know what you're trying."

"Do you?"

"I'm your _brother_," Michael snaps angrily. "Of course I know!"

"I wish I could persuade Father to let you out," Gabriel says. Sam thinks there is genuine regret in his voice. "But since we have not yet found Him... Let me talk to the boy."

"Since nobody seems to have noticed," Lucifer chimes in, for all the world like a sulky four-year-old, "let me point out that this is _my_ domain. Michael doesn't make the rules here. Michael doesn't make the rules anywhere now that Castiel has taken over in heaven – incidentally, Gabriel, why didn't _you_?"

The last question is a sudden afterthought. Sam can almost hear Gabriel shrug.

"Cleaning up the mess the two of you made? That's hardly what I would describe as a reward. Castiel is welcome to it. Besides... I have more important things on my mind. I wanted nothing to do with this, but Castiel asked for my help."

"And it suited your purposes," Michael snaps. "You have grown too weak, Gabriel!"

"Perhaps."

"Do you expect him to give it to you through the cage?" Lucifer demands.

"I know perfectly well he can do nothing of the kind. That's what Castiel wants, yes, but _I_ only want him to tell me where – _Sam_!" Sam groans and pushes himself up on his elbows. He can see the figure standing just outside the ring of fire. He can also see how the demons instinctively give it a wide berth as they go about their business.

"Yes?" Sam asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"You know," Gabriel says idly, "I wonder if you ever fully understood the amulet's power. Finding God isn't the only thing it can do... Sometimes finding God isn't even a thing it can do. Castiel never realized that."

"I think Castiel might realize more than we give him credit for," Michael offers, and his voice is powerful and wise and _old_. "He did change after his... failure. Perhaps he gained a new understanding of... himself." His voice hardens. "Is that why you are here?"

"I am here to ask a question," Gabriel replies. "Sam. Will you tell me where the amulet is?"

Sam, even with his mind fogged by pain, notices the odd phrasing. He struggles to raise his head enough to meet Gabriel's eyes, and for a moment he succeeds. But it only lasts for the fraction of a second, and the glimpse isn't long enough to let him guess what his answer is supposed to be.

After what seems like hours his befuddled brain settles on the truth.

"You know where it is."

Gabriel nods. "Goodbye."

"Wait!" Sam protests, trying to push himself up further. "That's it? You're _leaving_? You didn't need to come down here for _that_!"

"What makes you think your primitive intellect could possibly comprehend my reasons for coming here? Incidentally, for the amulet to work you need to be holding it." He turns to go, pauses, and looks back at Sam. "One thing I did learn from my father, which neither of my brothers seems to have done: I will not make you a present of something that you are capable of getting for yourself. Think about that."

Then Gabriel is gone.

Sam sinks slowly back to the ground. His mind is whirling. Gabriel knows – Gabriel _knows_ where the amulet is, just like Lucifer and Michael know, because it's hanging in plain sight around Sam's neck. He doesn't remember how it got there: it was in his pocket when he fell into the pit, all those years ago.

But he remembers enough to work out that Gabriel was trying to help.

When the _pain_ hits again, Sam, acting on blind instinct coupled with instructions from whatever part of his brain is managing to stay up and firing, makes a grab for the amulet. He thinks – he hopes – but more than anything else, he _wants_ his big brother.

* * *

Sam regains consciousness slowly. The first thing he is aware of is cold – but, oh, thank _God_, it isn't the burning, freezing, lowest-circle-of-hell cold that Lucifer brings on. This is different. This is... alive.

Sam breathes, and the air isn't full of sulphur and smoke.

"We have Touch," an amused voice says. "Smell... And I'm guessing this marks the return of Hearing. Open your eyes, it should be Sight next."

Sam is too tired to do anything but obey.

He opens his eyes to a starry sky. A shadow moves across them with a rustle of feathers. He turns his head and squints. After the eternal fires burning in the underworld, his night vision is pretty much shot.

But he knows who it is.

"Gabriel."

"Very good," the archangel says. "Much though I would like to sit here observing you while you recover, this is a busy street, Sam. If you feel like you can get up, now would be a good time."

Sam sits up. His head is pounding as though red-hot spikes are being drilled into his skull.

"You brought me back?" he manages to ask.

"And here I thought your brain was fully functional – or as close as it gets to fully functional. I did not bring you back."

"No..." Some part of Sam, the part that worked out the truth in Lucifer's cage, has the answer. "I brought myself back... I'm back? I'm really... _back_?"

"You're back," Gabriel affirms. "And before you ask, you are not a demon. Do you understand the amulet's purpose now?"

"It does... what you want."

"What you want the _most_," Gabriel qualifies. "And not entirely. It doesn't _do _anything. It just helps."

"Helps?"

"I'm guessing, for instance, that what _you_ wanted most was not necessarily to wake up in the middle of a street on a pile of dead leaves."

"I wanted..." Sam pauses. What _had_ he wanted? Why will his head not stop _pounding_? "I wanted to make sure Dean's all right. He wasn't... last I saw him."

"When was that?"

"I don't know... Years ago. I don't know how long ago... _here_. Lucifer let me... see him."

"Yes, that _is_ a trick he's mastered." Gabriel drops to a crouch beside Sam. "That's how he knows what orders to give, after all. And I'm told it can also be useful when he wants to torture souls in hell. By the way Sam, it has been one year and four months, almost to the day, since your attempt at heroism. Remember that; if you don't even know what year it is people may think you're insane..." Sam stared at Gabriel, his dazed mind only half comprehending. "So Dean wasn't all right?"

"Michael said he was. He looked all right. But he wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"He's my brother," Sam says in exasperation. "I _know_."

"Do you understand now?" At Sam's blank look, he prompts a little impatiently, "The _amulet_, boy. Honestly, did the trip here fry whatever brain cells you possess?"

"The amulet... I needed to find Dean. I _need_ to find Dean. But I couldn't... _there_. I couldn't get out of the cage. That's all it did, get me out, because I have to do the rest myself." Sam blinks owlishly. "That's it, isn't it? The amulet only helps you as much as it has to... Anything that there's even a remote possibility that you can do on your own, it won't do... So, now that I'm topside, it won't help me find Dean."

"It might help," Gabriel says, smiling in approval. "It might give you a nudge in the right direction. It won't perform any more miracles."

"But what about Cas? It didn't help him find God."

"Castiel didn't really want to find God. You and your brother had managed to change him too much by then. I don't know what exactly he _did_ want, so I can't tell you how the amulet helped him. I know how it helped your brother."

"Dean? He threw it away."

"And you picked it up. And now you're here. Alive."

It takes Sam a moment to process that. When he does, he feels tears prickling at his eyelids. He blinks them back furiously. "But... why didn't he just _give_ it to me?"

"It's an amulet, not a mind-control device. Dean was angry and hurt, and the amulet had to work with what it had. You have to understand, Sam – Dean didn't drop the amulet expecting you to pick it up. He dropped it to get back at you for what happened in heaven. He may even have thought that was what he wanted to do. But the amulet sensed, as much as an inanimate object _can_ sense, what he really wanted."

"Does Cas know I have it?"

"He will not learn from me."

Sam sighs. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you want to... find... God? He's your father."

"Michael was always the warrior. I was what you would describe as the _messenger_."

"_Angelos_," Sam says softly, and Gabriel nods.

"Precisely. I'd be a pretty useless messenger if I didn't know how to locate people... or missing members of my family, for that matter." He sits back on his heels, and Sam hears the rustling again. "I knew all along that you had picked it up, although I wasn't certain what you'd done with it. Lucifer and Michael might have tried to make you give it to them if they'd thought it would do them any good. The amulet is not all-powerful; with what _they_ want it couldn't have helped."

Sam has picked up on what he thinks is the most important part of Gabriel's statement.

"You _know _where God is."

"If I don't tell you," Gabriel says simply, "then you can truthfully tell anyone who asks that you don't know."

"And Dean?"

"What about Dean?"

"Where is he?"

This time it is Gabriel who sighs. "Do we have to go into this _again_? I thought we finally understood each other. Getting yourself out of hell was something you could not have done on your own. Finding your brother is something you _will_ do. You can start by getting up."

"Where am _I_?"

Gabriel laughs. "I suppose I can tell you that. You're close to where the journey began."

"Lawrence?"

"Not _that_ journey."

Sam looks around, and suddenly everything is familiar. The street – the trees – the silent building with dark windows looming before him –

"College – _Stanford_?"

There is no answer. When he looks around again, Gabriel is gone.

* * *

What did you think? Please let me know!


	3. Hope

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Cheryl for making some very helpful suggestions on this chapter. And to everyone who reviewed. *g*

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Hope**

Dean can feel something.

He flicks off the TV and looks around the room. Everything seems normal, from the salt lines at the windows to the Enochian runes carved on the doorframe. The house is silent. Empty, save for him, just as it has been since he moved in a year ago.

Dean has found peace, after a fashion. It didn't take him long to realize that the happy life he had envisioned with Lisa and Ben was a very different thing when he was actually living it. He tried to stick it out for a while, because of his promise. For a while, he succeeded.

But one day he drove Lisa's car to Ben's school to pick him up from soccer practice. Ben was late, and Dean let his head rest against the window, drowsing in the late afternoon sun. He was woken abruptly by the passenger door opening, and turned his head to swear at Sam for startling him. Then he saw Ben, and it took all his self-control not to swear at the boy for startling him without being Sam. Dean knew then that he couldn't stay with Lisa.

Now he lives alone, a retired hunter, like that Elkins guy.

Except that he never imagined retirement like this. Dean has always known that all hunters leave the game eventually, but he always imagined that when he and Sam left it... well... he and _Sam_ would leave it, and get a backwoods cabin somewhere and drive each other crazy. If one or both of them had kids by then, they might visit occasionally, but the important thing was that he and Sam would...

Dean forces back tears. He _will_ be strong, because he failed his brother in everything else and this is the last thing that remains of his promise. He will not break.

Except that he can still feel something. Now he has a headache building. He groans and presses his hands over his eyes, willing it to go away. It only gets worse, and he feels like there's a werewolf clawing at the inside of his head.

He staggers to his feet. If he can get up to his bedroom, he might be able to sleep it off.

He manages to get to the staircase and haul himself up, leaning heavily on the railing. There are twenty steps – he knows; he's counted – but they seem to stretch on forever, and no matter how many he climbs he never seems to be any closer to the top.

Then he stumbles and falls – fortunately he _has_ reached the top of the stairs, and he collapses onto the narrow landing instead of sliding back down them. He waits, catching his breath, rubbing his temple. After a moment he realizes that the headache isn't going to get any better, and if he wants to get to bed he'll just have to work around it.

He pushes himself up and stumbles the short distance to the bedroom. There are twin beds in it – because despite his promise, Dean _has_ to allow himself to hope that one day he'll wake up and discover that God has _finally_ decided to be fair to him and Sam and his Sasquatch brother will be snoring in the other bed – and falls onto the one nearest the door. The room lurches sickeningly around him. He groans and rolls over, and his surroundings dissolve.

And then he's seeing, but he isn't seeing, and there are flames flaring up in an impassable ring, and a man – _not_ a man – standing at the edge of the ring with his back to Dean. But they aren't flames anymore, the bright orange of the fire has faded to the slightly duller rusty shade of fallen leaves, and there are stars visible above because all the streetlights seem to have blown, and shadows moving in the darkness –

And then it's over. Dean tries to think, but he is too tired, his head hurts too much, and it isn't long before he is asleep.

* * *

Sam thinks this is the house, but his memories are... distant. It's been a _very_ long time for him, after all, and it'll be a while before his internal clock is ticking to earth-time again.

But it looks familiar, and that _has_ to be the same window through which he saw Dean downing a whisky and tossing Ben a bread roll. It looks different in the morning sun, bright and welcoming, and Sam can see why Dean wanted it. Hell, he can even remember a time when he wanted something like that himself – a time when he thought he could have it.

Sam is certain now that he has the house right, but he still hesitates. He tries to persuade himself that he's just nervous because, for him, it's been well over a hundred years since he last spoke to another human being.

He can't stand on the sidewalk forever, though. He's taken a bus through the night to get here, after all.

He makes himself walk forward, go the door and press the bell. Almost at once he hears footsteps. The door is flung open, and Sam is face to face with a woman he barely recognizes, the woman he trusted his brother with when he had to go.

"Hello," Lisa says, frowning uncertainly. "You're... are you... Sam? Dean's brother?"

Sam nods, nearly wincing at her half-shocked, half-disapproving expression. "Is Dean here?"

"You've really been out of touch with him, haven't you? He left months ago. He said... I'm sorry, but from what he said, _I_ thought you were dead."

Sam wonders what to say. He has no idea how much Dean has told Lisa. Finally he settles on, "I thought so, too. Can you tell me where he is?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry. He said one day that it wasn't working and he had to leave – and that was it. No address."

"Phone number?"

"I never saw him use his phone in all the time he was here. I think he got rid of it, but I really don't know. If he _has_ got a new one, he hasn't told me."

"Oh. OK. Thank you."

Sam backs away, but Lisa says, "Wait!" He pauses and looks down at her questioningly. "Wait – you look tired. Do you at least want to come in for... for a beer, or something?"

"You don't even know me," Sam points out. "You shouldn't be inviting strange men into your house."

"Your brother lived here for three months. He didn't talk much, but I'm not an idiot. Anyone who could make Dean Winchester feel so strongly... I'm willing to take my chances that you're not an axe-murderer."

Sam smiles. It feels strange. "Thanks, Lisa, but I have to go. I need to find Dean."

She nods and smiles back, something very like compassion in her face. "All right. If you do find him, tell him... tell him I understand."

"Thank you."

He retreats down the sidewalk, considering his options. The first thing he did after Gabriel left was to search his pockets, and he was relieved to discover his wallet still there, intact. He paid for bus fare to get here, but he still has enough cash for a few motel rooms and two fake credit cards that, with luck, haven't yet been cancelled.

There really is only one logical next step.

He finds a pay phone and dials a number from memory. He hopes to speak to Dean, or at least get his voicemail, but all he hears instead is, "_The number you have dialled is not in –_"

Sam curses and slams the phone down without waiting for the recorded message to finish. The next number he tries, he hears ringing, and, thankfully, the call is answered.

"Yeah?" a gruff voice demands.

"Bobby?" There is no response. After several seconds of silence, Sam tries again. "Bobby?"

"_Who the hell are you?_"

"Bobby, listen, it's Sam –"

"Yeah, right. What do you take me for, an idiot? Listen, whoever you are, I'm giving you one chance to tell me the truth before I come after you – and, believe me, you'll regret if I do."

"No, Bobby, _really_ –"

There's a click. Sam sighs and stared at the receiver. After a minute, he dials again.

"Yeah?" Bobby's voice answers warily.

"Bobby, look, I just have to find Dean, all right. Just tell me where he is and then once I've found him I'll come to you and drink holy water or whatever and –"

"Dean? You're after Dean? You leave him alone! That boy's suffering enough with his father dead and his brother in Lucifer's cage! If I hear that you've gone for Dean, so help me, I'll hunt you down and –"

"_Bobby!_ It's me! Sam! Really! I _was_ in the cage, but now I'm not, and I _need_ to find my brother."

Another click. Sam swears. It's strange, but somehow he hadn't stopped to consider _how_ he'd persuade Bobby and Dean to believe him. Lisa was different; Lisa doesn't know about demons and possessions and deals at crossroads: she saw Sam and she believed what any rational person would believe.

Even now, Sam isn't that worried about how he'll convince Dean. Dean might doubt him in the beginning – he'll be crazy not to – but in the end he'll know Sam is Sam, just the way he's always known everything about his brother. Convincing Bobby, however, is a different story.

This time, when Bobby answers, he launches straight into an exorcism ritual.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus_ –"

"Bobby –"

"– _spiritus omnis satanica potestas_ –"

"Bobby –"

"– _OMNIS INCURSIO INFERNALIS ADVERSARII_ –"

"_Omnis legio!_" Sam snaps. "_Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._ Is that enough or do you want me to finish it? I can, you know. _Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus _–"

"Damn you, _shut up_!" Bobby's breathing is heavy. "I _know_ what you _things_ are capable of, and I know some of you are immune to this ritual. You're not fooling me this way. Just –"

"Bobby, _please_." Sam's begging now, but he doesn't know what else to do. "Please, just – please. Tell me what I have to do to prove that I'm me and I'll do it. Anything. But you have to help me – I _need_ to find Dean."

"A shapeshifter would know everything you do," Bobby says, his voice still heavy with suspicion. "All your embarrassing childhood recollections and what Dean told you sitting on the hood of the Impala that weekend before you went to Stanford –"

"Would a shapeshifter know what happened right before I fell into the cage? Shapeshifters can't get into hell. Dean came first, and then you and Castiel –"

"Every demon worth the name probably knows that story by now!"

Sam draws in a shuddering breath. This is hopeless. Bobby _has_ to believe him, but considering everything they know about what supernatural creatures can do, there is literally _nothing_ he can think of doing that a demon or Revenant or something couldn't accomplish if it wanted to.

"Bobby," he says, and he's openly begging now. "_Please._ Just – listen, just before I fell into the pit, the last thing I saw was Dean. He was looking at me, and I was _glad_ he was beaten up because otherwise I think he'd have tried to... to follow me down, or something stupid like that. And I never really wanted him to be there at the end – if there'd been _any_ way I could've managed without him in Detroit I would've made him stay away – but Dean being there was the only thing that gave me the courage to go through with it." Sam's fighting to keep his voice steady. "I _saw_ him, Bobby, and he was hurting. I know Dean – I know every look on his face, and I've never seen a look like that before, not even when Dad died. He's broken. He's trying, but he's broken, and I have to help him. You have to help me find him. Please."

There's silence on the other end. Sam waits, heart thudding in his chest, not knowing what he'll do if Bobby won't believe him. There's nothing more he can offer – he's bared his soul, and if Bobby doesn't believe that, then no amount of holy water or ancient Latin is going to persuade him that Sam is himself.

Sam's about to say something, _anything_, just to break the tension, when Bobby finally speaks. "God... _Sam?_"

And Sam lets out a breath. "Yeah... It's me."

"_How?_"

"It's complicated," Sam says. "I'll explain everything – I promise I will. But I need to find Dean first. I can't let him go on thinking I'm gone. Do you know where he is?"

"He... Isn't he with that girl? The one you sent him to?"

"Lisa, and, no, he isn't. I just met her. She doesn't know where he is."

Bobby's sigh is audible. "He cut, did he? I thought he might. I don't know if I can help... That's one freakishly large haystack we're looking at, boy, and I haven't spoken to Dean for over a year –just when I thought you two were done trying to kill me!" There is a moment's silence, and then Bobby goes on, "Sam, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. What about Lucifer? He still inside?"

"Yes, he is. He and Michael. Adam's – I'm not sure where Adam is. He's not in the cage."

"That'll do," Bobby says tersely. "With all the trouble brewing now, I was afraid Lucifer was loose again. At least we don't have _that_ to deal with."

"Trouble? What are you talking about?"

Bobby sighs again.

"Look, you've just got yourself out of Lucifer's cage. You don't have to worry about that just yet. I'd tell you to come here, but I know you're not going to have a minute's peace till you've tracked your brother down, so you find him and then you call me. Or, better yet, you go get yourself a phone _now_. Then at least I'll be able to contact _one_ of you... And, Sam? It's great to hear your voice again."

Sam nods, although Bobby can't see him over the phone, and hangs up. The world feels surreal, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the fact that all his time in hell was barely more than a year _here_.

He leaves the booth and looks around for a likely-looking store. He needs a phone, but he also needs some clothes and a toothbrush and a bunch of other things whose existence he'd totally forgotten in his time downstairs.

It doesn't take him long to get what he needs, along with a backpack to put it in – fortunately that card _is_ still working. Then he finds a small park and settles himself down on a bench to think. His mind is clearer now, if still not working at full speed. He needs to find Dean. He needs to see that Dean is all right, Dean needs to know that _he_ is all right. But Bobby's right, he has all of the country to choose from and Dean is just one man.

In the end Sam decides to do what he does best. He hefts his backpack and goes in search of the nearest library.

* * *

Dean stayed with Lisa for three months. That isn't much to go on, but Sam's worked with less.

It doesn't take him long to figure out that there weren't any supernatural occurrences – or at least, nothing _noticeable_ – in the time Dean was here. He shakes his head to clear it and starts scrolling through the newspapers begin on _that_ day.

The headlines for the day after _that day_ are all the same – large earthquake with its epicentre in Lawrence, Kansas. Sam almost laughs – _large earthquake_ seems like such a mild description of what happened, so minor compared to what _would_ have happened if Dean hadn't shown up and given him the strength to fight.

He goes through the papers mechanically, skimming every page, even the classifieds, because one thing hunting has taught him is that you never know where you might find useful information.

In the end it's the classifieds that give him his first clue.

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	4. Hurting

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to everyone who reviewed.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine. Not making a penny.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Hurting**

Sam goes with the truth this time. He tells himself that it's because his mind isn't working properly, he's been cut off from the world for over a year, and there's no way he could fool people if he tried to disguise himself as an insurance salesman or an FBI agent. It's not because he can't bear to play the game without Dean's quiet snickering at his back. It's _not_.

"Hi, my name's Sam," he says. He was about to say _Sam Winchester_, but he remembers in time that Sam Winchester is dead, and so is his brother. "Could I have a minute?"

The man grunts at him and inclines his head towards the long, low building several yards behind them. Neon lights over the door spell out _MIKE'S GARAGE_. Sam barely has time to wonder at the irony of that before he follows the man into a tiny, cramped office. The man indicates a chair. Sam lowers himself into it.

"What do you want?" the man asks, and his tone, although impatient, is not unfriendly. "I'm Mike, by the way," he adds. "Mike Lewis."

"I'm looking for my brother, and I was wondering if you might have seen him – Dean? Um... I know he was in town about a year ago, and I saw your ad for a mechanic. This is just down the street from the place where he was staying. It's the kind of job he might have taken."

"Dean – Dean Harrison? Tall guy – not as tall as you, though – brown hair. Listened to seventies music."

"Yeah, that's him. Did he work here?"

"Man, you guys don't stay in touch much, do you?" Mike grins at him to take the sting out of his words. "Yeah, he worked here. One of the best mechanics I've ever had – I was sorry to lose him. He quit just about three months after he started. He said he was leaving town."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Not to me – hang on a sec." Mike goes to the door, sticks his head outside it and yells, "Joe! Get in here!"

Joe turns out to be a young man – younger than Sam – with a shock of red hair. He grins amiably at Mike, nods to Sam, and asks, "Yeah?"

"You remember Dean Harrison? The guy we had about a year ago, helped us out with all the old-model classic cars."

"Sure do."

"When he left, did he ever say where he was going?"

Joe frowns in thought. "Well, sort of. He said he was going on a road trip. He was going to start with California – Palo Alto, I think?"

* * *

Palo Alto. Sam feels like burying his head in his hands and sobbing. _Palo Alto._ The freaking amulet helped him more than he thought, but he didn't realize it and he went haring across the country. Great. Just peachy.

But he has an advantage now. Those four years in Stanford look like they'll finally be useful for _something_ – Sam knows Palo Alto the way only a college student can. Despite what Dean thought, he did _sometimes_ visit places other than the library. Sam _knows_ Palo Alto better than any other town in the world, and if Dean's still there, Sam can track him down. If he's not, Sam can pick up his trail. One way or another, he _can_ find his brother.

A genuine smile breaking out on his face for the first time in months, Sam gets up off the park bench and goes to inquire about buses to California.

* * *

Dean sits at the bar nursing his brandy. It's his first, and probably the only one he'll have today.

He's trying to think, and it's difficult. Today is one of the days when it _hurts_, unimaginably, when every sight or sound or movement makes him think of Sam. He hates these days, but he knows he'd hate it even more if they stopped, if he stopped missing Sam and wanting him back.

_Oh, Sammy._

He hears conversation from a group behind him – college students, by the look of them. They're talking about a house that's supposed to be haunted.

Dean nearly chokes on his brandy when he laughs mirthlessly. There was a time when he'd have listened more closely to that conversation, then gone to the Impala and driven straight to the haunted house. That time is long gone. Dean doesn't hunt anymore – he can't, because he knows he'll fall apart if he does. And he made a promise. Dean has broken a lot of promises in his life, even promises he made to Sam. But this is the last thing he has, and he's going to hold it all together.

He tunes out their conversation, pulling a newspaper towards him instead. He reads the cover story without much attention. It's just something to do while he sits in the bar.

He barely notices when somebody takes the seat next to him. There's a blue denim jacket at the edge of his vision, a bit of dark green cotton and a whiff of some feminine perfume, but he's not paying attention. So it startles him when a voice says unexpectedly, "Can I get you something?"

"Oh." Dean looks up to meet sparkling blue eyes. "No, thanks. I'm set." He taps his half-empty brandy glass.

"So," the woman said, smiling at him under long, dark lashes. "What are you doing here by yourself?"

There's a polite snub on the tip of Dean's tongue, but he remembers his words to Sam years ago.

_Don't you think she'd want you to be happy? Maybe have a little fun? _

Sam, he knows, _would_ want him to be happy. That was why his little brother sent him to Lisa, after all. It turns out that the apple-pie life isn't what he wants, but maybe it's all right to flirt with a pretty woman in a bar. It's not going to make Sam's absence any easier to bear, but maybe that isn't the point.

"I'm Dean," he says, and he cringes when he can't quite manage the light tone he'd like. "Come here a lot more often than I should."

"It's funny that I've not seen you before, then," the woman replies, smiling brightly. "My name's Mia. I live just around the corner, near the gas station."

Dean smiles back, trying not to turn it into a grimace.

"Great to meet you, Mia." He's out of practice, but she seems enthusiastic. "So, what do you usually do for fun?"

* * *

Sam leans his head on the window as the bus pulls out of the station. He has a long ride ahead of him, and he knows he should get some sleep while he can, because once he gets to Palo Alto he's not going to rest until he's located his brother. But there's one thing he needs to do before he can let himself drift off.

He pulls his new phone out of his pocket and calls Bobby.

The older hunter answers on the second ring, his voice tinged with anxiety.

"Sam? That you?"

"Yeah," Sam says softly. "I'm on my way to California. Someone told me Dean might be there."

"Someone? Someone you can trust?"

"I don't know, Bobby, but there's nothing else to go on right now. Palo Alto is as good a place as any to start. Besides... I have a feeling about it." Sam pauses. He hasn't told Bobby much, yet, and the middle of a crowded bus isn't really the best place to start explaining himself. "Look – I can't explain right now, but I'll call you when I can get somewhere private."

Bobby sighs.

"All right – you take care of yourself, you hear me?"

Sam assures Bobby that he will and then says goodbye and hangs up. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and wishes he had the courage to close his eyes.

He hasn't slept once since coming back. He was running on adrenaline all this while, unable to let himself relax until he tracked Dean down, but now – _now _he knows it's going to take longer than a couple of days, and he has a long bus ride ahead of him, and he really needs to be fully alert when he reaches his destination.

But he's scared.

He didn't sleep in hell. He doesn't know if Dean did, in his time there, but for Sam it was an endless cycle of Michael and Lucifer, Lucifer and Michael. They complement each other very well. Sam would consider it sweet if it wasn't so horrifically painful.

He's scared, just as he's been ever since he was a child and first discovered that nightmares were real.

But he _has_ to sleep, because he has to be awake when he gets to Palo Alto.

So Sam finally shuts his eyes and tries to still his trembling.

* * *

"So, do you want to come back to my place for a cup of coffee?"

Dean shakes his head. "I wish I could, sweetheart, but I have to get home. Long day tomorrow."

The excuse is transparent, and he knows she'll see right through it. He doesn't care. It stopped being fun a while ago, around the time he downed his third brandy, looked around expecting to see Sam rolling his eyes at Dean's back, and found only a splotchy wall.

To his surprise, she laughs and shrugs.

"Some other time, then. Will you at least walk me home?"

Dean doesn't want to be rude, so drops some change on the counter and gets to his feet. Mia leads the way out of the bar, keeping up easily with Dean's long strides.

"Maybe you'll call me sometime," she says, giving him a sidelong glance. She seems to take his noncommittal grunt as agreement, because she goes on, "I really would like to see you again, Dean."

Dean's senses are tingling. Something's off. This isn't normal – or, rather, it's _too _normal. Something's wrong about this woman.

He backs away from her, but she only laughs.

"Oh, don't _worry_, Dean. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to offer you a deal."

_I'm here to offer you a deal._

The words echo strangely in Dean's head and he feels like the entire world has shrunk to nothing, like all there is in it is him and the Mia-demon, staring at each other across a foot of autumn air. Her eyes turn black, glimmering dangerously in the late sunlight. _A deal._ He doesn't have to think too hard to figure out what the demon will offer him.

_Sammy. Sammy, I can get you back, I can do my job, I can –_

_Dean, NO!_

The voice in his head is strangely like his brother's. Dean swallows, torn. Sure, he promised that he wouldn't try to get Sam out, but that was when he was willing to promise anything, including that it was all just a nightmare and Sam would wake up soon, _anything_ to make his baby brother's last hours a little happier. And, yeah, he's kept his promise, most of the reason he's stayed away from hunting is that he _knows_ that his resolve won't last in the face of his old life.

But this is different.

"I can bring your brother to you," Mia goes on. "Here. I can do it."

And, oh _God_, this feels like a betrayal of everything he's ever stood for, a betrayal of everyone he's ever loved. But he knows that everyone he's ever loved would want him to do this, and _that_ is what gives him the courage to say, "_No._"

Sammy would want him to say no. Dean doesn't care about the future of humanity or the fate of the world, not when Sammy is involved, but he does care about keeping his promise.

"Think about it," Mia says, smiling seductively. "Your last deal ended in disaster, didn't it, Dean? Sammy would have gone to heaven – your innocent little brother – but you had to drag him back when he was at peace, you had to make him shoulder a burden he didn't want, and now he's in hell. I've seen what they do to him."

"Shut _up_," Dean hisses.

"I've heard him screaming, Dean. He screams for you, sometimes – screams for his big brother to come and rescue him."

"_Shut up._"

"I'm not even trying to send you to hell in his place. You can be here together, Dean. Both of you. All you have to do –"

"_Shut up!_"

He has to stop her from talking, because he knows that if she gets the words out, he will agree. All the logic in the world will go crashing to nothing in the face of the fact that he can get his Sammy out of hell.

"Dean –"

"_Christo_," Dean says hoarsely. Then, without even waiting to see the flinch, he runs.

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	5. Habit

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. *g*

**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything or anyone.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Habit**

Sam sits up when the bus reaches Palo Alto, blinking nightmares out of his eyes. He's barely slept, and he feels even more tired than when he started.

The stop is familiar from all the times he and his friends went on weekend trips and short holidays. If he shuts his eyes, he can almost believe that Jess is next to him and Zach and Becky in the seat behind.

But they're not here.

That thought should depress him, but it doesn't, because he's hoping that just maybe there _is_ something waiting for him in Palo Alto, something better than his friends and American History 101.

He hefts his backpack and gets out of the bus. He doesn't go far, though, just to the shade of a nearby clump of trees while he works out what to do next. If Dean is here, Sam will find him, but first he needs to figure out a starting point.

What had Gabriel said? _Close to where the journey began._ Maybe that's the right place to start – his old apartment, where Dean came and found him after four years of separation.

* * *

Dean is still shaking as he lays the salt lines with more care than usual. When he's done, he sprinkles enough holy water over every entrance to nearly wash away the salt. He checks the traps, the runes, the lines of Latin carved into thresholds and window-frames.

He knows that turning Mia down was the right thing to do. The _last_ time he made a deal for Sam's life, the crossroads demon sounded only vaguely interested. If they're seeking him out and _offering_ him deals, then whatever they want has to be _very_ important to them – meaning very _bad_ for everyone else.

Despite his shock, Dean feels an odd lightness. It takes him a moment to figure out what it is: the demon offered to bring Sam back. The demon – a pretty low-level one, if Dean is any judge –offered to get his brother _out_ of Lucifer's cage.

That means it can be done.

That means Sammy will find a way to do it. Dean doesn't think hoping for his little brother to get himself out of the cage counts as breaking his promise; even if it does, there's nothing he can do about it. He can force himself to sit around doing nothing, he can force himself to go to the bar and flirt with pretty girls – _yeah, and look how well that turned out _– but no force in heaven or hell can make him stop wanting Sam to be safe.

Finally deciding that the house is as secure as it's going to be, Dean trudges into the living room and flicks on the TV.

He goes through the channels, lingering briefly on _Night of the Living Dead_, makes a face and turns the set off again. Yup. Tonight is definitely going to be one of those nights. He's been having mood swings all day, going from dark despair to the faint glimmer of hope that's the closest he can now get to happy, back and forth like a pendulum.

Back and forth like Sam.

Resigned to a restless night, Dean goes upstairs.

* * *

Sam feels like he's wandered into a dream.

They've rebuilt the apartment. He doesn't know why he's surprised by that – it's been six years, after all. The curtains in the windows are a bright green that Jess would never have let him get. There are some bedraggled flowers in the window-boxes and he can see lights on and hear laughter from inside. It's happy and safe and _normal_.

Sam can still smell smoke.

He wills himself to stay calm and look around. Dean came to Palo Alto. _Why?_ There must have been a reason. If Sam can only figure out what it is, he'll be closer to finding his brother.

Sam tries to think. Was there anything he left in college that Dean might have wanted to pick up? Any unfinished business that Dean might have felt obliged to complete for him? Any reason – _any_ reason – for his brother to make his way _here_?

Then he remembers – he asked Stanford to hold his mail when he left, told them he didn't know where he'd be. It was supposed to be a few days, but that dragged into weeks and months and years. Of course, he doubts the college would have held his mail that long, not when he was legally dead, but he expects Dean wanted to check, just in case. He would have done the same thing.

He can go to the despatch centre, but that'll have to wait till morning. There's one thing he can do _now_.

* * *

It doesn't take him long to get to one of the student computer centres, and he doesn't even bother with trying to find a paperclip to pick the lock. He walks around to the back, finds the door that he knows is there, grabs the handle and jiggles it just the right way, and a second later he's inside. It doesn't matter if anybody's seen him: they'll only think he's a pledge with a mission.

The systems are secure, and most people wouldn't be able to hack into the admin servers. But Sam Winchester isn't most people, and Sam Just-Escaped-from-Hell Winchester trying to locate his brother isn't going to be stopped by little things like campus firewalls. He remembers every trick and proxy and password from his student days, and, with the help of a couple of software engineering majors who happen to be online and drunk enough not to ask too many questions, Sam's in.

It turns out they _did_ hold his mail, not that there was much of it. Someone picked it up... Sam does the math in his head and nods. The timing's right. It might've been Dean.

He presses a few buttons and grins. Dean didn't just collect Sam's mail, he left a new forwarding address. It's a postal box, not a home address, but it's at least something to go by. Sam scribbles it down quickly, happy to note that it isn't too far away.

Then he's out.

Now there's nothing to do but wait till morning. He considers finding a motel, but decides against it: he's only planning to catch a few hours' sleep. The campus has plenty of cosy corners where he can safely hide himself.

* * *

Sam doesn't manage to get that sleep, though, because just half an hour after he's settled himself down and shut his eyes his phone rings. He wakes with a start and a curse. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone and winds up pulling the amulet out along with it. It takes him a few seconds to disentangle them.

"Yeah?" he mutters after he's finally succeeded in flipping the phone open.

"Sam, listen," Bobby's voice says urgently. "You reach California?"

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm here." The moonlight is glinting on the amulet in his hand, and Sam wishes it would stop, because for some reason the glint is making his head pound. "Something wrong?"

"Not exactly... There's just a job I wondered if you could handle."

"Oh, come _on_, Bobby," Sam protests. "_Now?_ I have to find Dean. I think I know where he might be."

"Just a simple salt-and-burn, Sam. Are you in Palo Alto?"

"Near it. But, Bobby, I can't –"

"No, listen to me, Sam. I'm not telling you to stop looking for Dean and do this. But _if_ you happen to have an hour free, it would come in handy. This thing is about to start killing people."

Sam sighs.

"Fine. Tell me what it is and I'll get to it if I can. No promises."

Bobby reels off some names and an address. Sam nods. That's in the same postal zone as the forwarding address Dean's left at Stanford. Maybe he'll be able to help Bobby out after all.

"So what is this?" he asks, leaning back. "Dead guy who refuses to stay dead?"

"You know the deal. Unpleasant murder – I didn't have time to read through hundred-year-old newspaper archives like you usually do, but I got a bit of the story from a friend of mine. So it was an old man in the early 1900s, accused of heresy and witchcraft –"

"He was accused of _heresy?_ In the 1900s?"

"Not by the law, by his neighbours, and they didn't kill him. But they did stop talking to him, and I'm guessing it got a bit depressing after a while. He shut himself up in a cabin up on some mountain, not too far from Palo Alto, had no contact with anyone except for a couple, a man and a woman, who went up twice a week to make sure his house was running and take him any supplies he needed."

"Who were they?"

"There are half a dozen different versions of that. Old servants, family friends, a nephew and his wife – doesn't matter. But one day there was an argument, that's what the legend says, and that evening the couple came down from the mountain and said the old man had died peacefully in his sleep."

"People bought that?"

"He was a blasphemer. People didn't care, at least not the people who knew him. Maybe they thought it served him right. Anyway, the cabin fell into disuse after that... until a week ago, when a Stanford journalism student went to look at it for a project."

"Have a name?"

"Kate Jeffries. The place freaked her out a bit, apparently."

"How'd you hear about it?"

"I knew her mom – a long time ago. She knows a bit about what I do."

"Oh."

"What?" Bobby demands belligerently.

"Nothing. So... you want me to check this place out? Did Kate say what exactly freaked her out?"

"She thought she was being watched."

"_Bobby!_" Sam protests, exasperated. "You said it was going to start getting homicidal!"

"I know, I know," Bobby says. "It sounds flimsy. If anybody else had asked, I wouldn't have called you. But I know Kate. She doesn't imagine things. Check it out if you have the time, Sam, as a favour to me."

Sam sighs and repeats, "No promises."

* * *

Dean's at the bar again as soon as it opens. He doesn't go to the counter, though, just sits at a table in the corner and looks at the room over the top of a week-old newspaper.

The first people to come in after him are the college students from yesterday, still full of talk about the haunted house. This time they're talking about going in themselves to explore. Dean stifles a groan, thinking about how many past jobs have resulted from silly kids wanting to explore things they know nothing about.

For several minutes he tells himself he can't interfere, but in the end he can't help it. It's one thing to stay out of active hunting and it's another to let a group of kids walk into disaster.

"Hey!" he says, leaning across his table to them. "I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying about a haunted house. I used to study things like that, you know, maybe I could help you out. What house are you talking about?"

The kids look at him, and Dean's struck by how _young_ they are. Was Sammy that young when Dean went to Stanford to uproot him from his books and his friends and his _life_?

"You know that old shoe factory near the lake? The one they shut down about ten years ago?"

"Yeah," Dean says, although he doesn't.

"You take the trail leading into the woods from that... It goes up a hill after a while, and the house is at the top. It's a short hike, just a couple of miles."

"So what's the story with it?"

"Some old guy was murdered there years ago, and they say he still haunts the place looking for revenge. One of the girls in my Psych 101 class went to check it out and she was _so_ freaked when she got back. We thought we'd go see for ourselves."

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

"Oh, come on, man, you're not telling me you believe in _ghosts_?"

"_Something_ freaked your friend out."

"Yeah, she said she heard noises and creaking and she thought she was being _watched_. That doesn't sound like _something_ to me; that sounds like too many bad horror movies. I'm telling you, there's nothing there but a broken-down old cabin with some junk in it."

"Then why are you checking it out?"

The kid shrugs. "Just in case."

"Well, there may not be a _ghost_," Dean tries. "But that doesn't mean it's _safe_. There might be... you know... a serial killer holed out up there, or something like that. Besides, if it's that old, the wood's probably rotted through. It could come down on your heads."

"No way, man," the kid says, shaking his head. "Hey, you know what? You're the second person today who's been asking me about that old cabin. I guess Kate managed to get word round a bit."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "Who was the first?" Dean hopes it was a hunter: if so, he can leave the kids alone and stay out of this with a clear conscience.

"Guy who swung by campus this morning – said he was a reporter from Chicago. Don't think he was, though, he seemed a bit distracted. He said he was staying at – where was it? – oh, yeah, that motel down by the used-car lot. Hey, he left me his phone number – you want it? Maybe he'll be able to tell you more."

"That'd be great," Dean says. "Thanks."

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	6. Hounded

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. *g*

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Hounded**

"_What?_ What do you mean you can't tell me?"

"Sometimes people are just private, son," the man behind the desk says patiently. "And we respect personal liberties. As long as it's just letters he's getting, and not parts for a nuclear bomb, we're not going to interfere. Look, he comes down here once a week to pick up his mail – if you want, you can leave him a message."

"When's he due next?"

"Tomorrow."

"_Tomorrow?_" Sam knows it's ridiculous that after his time in hell, which was a year for Dean and a lot of years for him, he can't bear to wait a few hours to see his brother. But _then_ he was on hell and Dean was on earth and they had no way of getting to each other, and _now_ Dean's just a few miles away and the _only_ thing keeping him from his big brother is this man's refusal to help him. "Can't you give me anything? Phone number? E-mail?"

"Sorry, son," the man says. "Look, it's not that long. Why don't you just go home and get some rest and come back first thing tomorrow? Your friend's usually here pretty early."

Sam sighs. "All right. Thanks. Can you tell me where the nearest library is?"

He doesn't know if the library will help him find Dean, but it might. And he might be able to look for any news stories on Bobby's haunted house, too.

* * *

"Hello, Dean."

"Oh, not you again," Dean groans, glaring at the Mia-demon. "Are you _following_ me?"

"Yes."

Dean sighs. Figures.

"I'm not making any deals with you –"

"You don't even know what I want."

"I know it can't be anything good."

Black eyes flare as the demon looks at him. Then she takes the seat across from Dean in the cramped booth, eyes the diner's menu, and grins.

"You know Lucifer and Michael take turns with your brother? Usually. Sometimes they work together... Finally a family again. Isn't that sweet?"

"Get out."

"Sammy's stronger than you are, you know."

"I'm the only one who gets to call him that."

"He hasn't broken yet... Not that it'll do any good if he _does_ break, because Lucifer and Michael will just fall over laughing and then start on him again. I think they're really enjoying themselves."

"Get the _hell_ out."

"You can stop it, Dean. Give me the amulet."

Dean stiffens. "What amulet? Lucifer wants an amulet?"

"Lucifer doesn't. It's no good to him. I do."

"_You_ want – wait, you're here on your own? What, you think I'm _stupid_? Crowley couldn't spring Sam from the cage – _Cas_ couldn't spring Sam from the cage without releasing Lucifer – and _you're_ going to do it?"

"Do you want your brother back or not?"

"I don't have the amulet," Dean says. "I don't know where it is. But even if I did, I would _not_ be making this deal with you. I am not going to turn Sam's sacrifice into nothing by undoing everything he died for!"

"Bad answer, Dean." Mia smiles. "And just for that, I think I'm going to go watch your brother being tortured to cheer myself up. I hope it's Lucifer's turn."

Dean can feel his fury building.

"You even mention Sam's name again," he gets out through gritted teeth, "and I will kill you. Then I will find Cas and make him bring you back so I can kill you again."

Mia laughs and vanishes. Dean leans back, breathing heavily. He has to calm down. He needs something to do, something to occupy himself so that he doesn't go after Mia to kill her. Even more importantly, he needs to occupy himself so that he doesn't go after Mia and try to make a deal.

Maybe he can try to track down that hunter.

* * *

The first time Sam's phone rings, the librarian glares at him like he's just murdered someone. He gives her an apologetic look, whispers a promise to call Bobby back later, and turns off the phone.

He can't find anything that might lead him to Dean in the last year of newspaper archives. He's considering trying to hack into the postal system's database, but he doesn't have any drunken engineering majors to call on here, and he can't do it without help.

Sam sighs, resting his pounding head on his fists. He's sleep-deprived – he knows that. All he got last night after he finished talking to Bobby was about fifteen minutes before nightmares woke him, and then he spent the rest of the night checking sixteen months' worth of e-mail on his cell phone. Most of it was spam; there _were_ a few messages from his friends, but he hasn't replied to them yet. He spoke to Bobby and Lisa because he had to, to find Dean, but he can't bear the idea of letting anyone else know he's alive before his brother does.

He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to sleep a full night through again. He doesn't think so. But that doesn't matter now – the only thing that matters is letting Dean know he's all right, and he's back, so that his brother can stop feeling the guilt that Sam is sure is drowning him right now.

But he has a few hours to kill.

He can try to check out that house – but he has no equipment. No guns, no knives, not even a crowbar. Getting hold of salt and gasoline and a box of matches shouldn't be problem, and that's all he really needs, but he'll feel better if he has something to protect himself in case the spirit turns up in the middle of the procedure.

A gun he might be able to get: there's just enough daylight left that it won't be suspicious. Filling cartridges with rock salt _will_ be suspicious. He'll have to get back to his motel room for that. He'll also have to go to the nearest church to get a crucifix and some rosaries so he can sanctify a few bottles of water.

Sam sets his jaw and gets to his feet. He may as well do this job, since he does have time to spare, but he is _not_ going to get himself slaughtered by a ghost when he is so close to finding Dean.

* * *

Dean frowns when he gets voicemail for the fourth time. There's not even a recorded message with an emergency number, and that's not like a hunter.

He sits back in the driver's seat and watches the motel across the street. It feels strange to be doing this without Sam sitting next to him and lecturing him about mediaeval lore. Dean shakes that thought off before it can overwhelm him. He has to get this done – check the guy out, make sure he's legit and he knows what he's doing, and then back off.

The woman at the reception desk is young and pretty, and it doesn't take Dean long to persuade her that he's a police detective doing a routine check for suspicious people. _No, sir, nothing unusual has been happening here... Well, we do have a few new people – this morning? This morning there was a couple that came in with three kids, and later one guy on his own... No, he didn't look that old... Just a backpack... He went out in the afternoon and I've not seen him since... Strange? Not really. He asked for the last room at the end because he said he wanted to be away from the traffic... Name? Let me check... Here it is, Worthington, I think. I can't read the first name – this guy's handwriting is awful... Sure, I'll let you know if I need anything._

_Worthington._ The name doesn't ring a bell; but then, Dean never expected that it would. No hunter worth his salt is going to be checking in under his real name.

He thanks the woman and goes outside. When he's sure she's not looking, he runs to the last room, picks the lock, and shuts the door behind him.

The room is... strange is the only word for it. There's a devil's trap chalked out on the floor just inside the door, and runes on the doorframe and under all the windows, but that's it. No salt lines. No telltale dampness from holy water sprinkled on the carpet. If this is a hunter, he has some unusual notions of security.

Dean chews at his lip. What kind of hunter would take the trouble to draw a devil's trap and copy Enochian runes, but wouldn't bother with something as basic as salt lines? There's an answer coming to him, and he doesn't like it.

Dean looks around. The room is bare. There's a backpack lying on the far bed. Dean goes over to it, hesitates, and then opens it. There are a few sets of clothes – not many, even for a hunter – and a couple of paperbacks.

Dean _really_ doesn't like the conclusions he's being forced to draw. Where are the flasks of holy water? The books of exorcism rituals?

This hunter is no hunter.

That could mean one of two things. He _might_ be an amateur, a guy who thinks he knows the supernatural and has been lucky enough not to get eaten yet.

Or he might know _exactly_ what he's doing. Salt lines or no salt lines, those runes look professional. Dean can't be certain without a book to compare against, but they look _right_. He pulls out his mobile and begins snapping pictures. As he does so, it strikes him that there's something familiar about the runes – and the devil's trap. Something he should know.

He can't for the life of him remember what.

As soon as he's done, he gets out. One thing he's certain of – he's going up to that cabin tonight. And once he's made sure that the kids he spoke to aren't being slaughtered, he's coming back to have a word with this guy.

* * *

By the time Sam can buy everything he needs and get back to the motel, it's nearly dark. He just has time to fill his cartridges with salt, sanctify the water and leave. It's not a long hike to the cabin, for which he's grateful. The lack of sleep is starting to tell on him.

He works quickly, mechanically, filling the cartridges first and then muttering a blessing over the water. Years of practice have had their effect and he doesn't even need to think about what he's saying: the Latin phrases roll off his tongue like old friends. He's out the door in minutes, only realizing after he's shut it behind him that perhaps he should have laid salt lines... But that can wait until he's back.

He snags directions and a map from the woman at the front desk. For a few minutes he stands just outside, studying the map, trying to work out the best route over the terrain. Then he makes up his mind and sets out.

As soon as his footsteps have died away down the gravel path, the woman picks up the phone.

* * *

Dean's just about to leave when his phone rings. He answers as he's locking up.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, is that Detective Mackenzie? This is Joan, from the motel."

"Hi, Joan," Dean says. "What's up?"

"I just thought you might like to know, that man you were asking me about? He's just gone out."

"Out? Out where?"

"I don't know exactly where he's going, but he was asking me about hiking trails up to the old Jameson place."

"Great... Thanks, Joan."

Dean hangs up, certain now that he has to go to the cabin. If the strange man is summoning demons, then Dean has to stop him – and if he's simply an idiot in over his head, Dean still has to stop him.

For a moment Dean wonders if this might be a trap... after all, he's had more than his usual complement of demonic encounters recently. Then he shakes off the thought. If it does turn out to be the Mia-demon, he'll turn tail and get the hell out of there. He will.

* * *

Still no reunion. Evil me. ;-)

What did you think? Please let me know!


	7. Hunters

**Author's Note (Important): **I'm going to be out of town for a few weeks, and there are three chapters left after this. I'll post one tomorrow, before I leave, and I'll try to post the others from out of town, but I don't know how the Internet connection will be. So – anyone who really wants to read the rest in a hurry, and doesn't want to take a chance on the Net connection, please let me know and I'll send you across the rest – or maybe just post all three chapters tomorrow if enough people want that.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Hunters**

When Dean gets there, the house is dark, and there's no telltale flashlight beam or flicker of candles gleaming from any of the windows. Looks like the other guy isn't here yet.

He parks the Impala away from the house, concealed behind a clump of trees. He doesn't want to tip this Worthington person off. Then he shoves a shotgun in his pocket, grabs a flashlight, and goes to the front door.

It's rotted nearly off its hinges. Dean pushes it open carefully – he doesn't want to kick it down and warn the other guy that someone's here – and goes inside. There's a bit of moonlight filtering through the windows, enough for him to see by, so, despite his misgivings, he doesn't turn on his flashlight. He pads through the room, peering into corners, but there's nothing unusual, nothing out-of-place.

Deciding there's nothing to find in this room, he makes his way to the kitchen. It doesn't take him long to make a circuit of that, and then he's heading up the stairs.

There's a bedroom right off the landing, and Dean goes there first. Linen sheets hang in tatters on a bed over the remnants of an old-fashioned feather mattress, and the room is filled with the odds and ends of a hundred years ago, but what draws Dean's trained eye is the leather-bound book on the bedside table. It looks like it might be a diary or a journal.

Dean sits carefully on the bed, trying not to raise a storm of dust, and picks up the book. _God_, he misses Sam. This is the kind of thing he'd normally shove at his brother to deal with. He hates trying to decipher spidery handwriting, especially in the middle of the night, but that was the part of the job his brother seemed to thrive on. Dean opens the book and hears the worn leather crack. He groans and hopes the pages aren't going to crumble to dust under his fingers.

The ink has faded over the years, and the moonlight isn't enough to read by. With a sigh, Dean settles down on the floor with his back to the outer wall, flicks on his flashlight, and begins to read.

* * *

Sam arrives only a little out of breath. He looks up at the house, taking in the details. Front door hanging almost off its rusted hinges, looks like a couple of rooms upstairs – something that _might_ be light in one of the upstairs windows, or might just be a trick of the moonlight.

The place is quiet.

Sam sets most of his stuff down under a tree – no sense dragging the salt and gasoline with him while he's checking out the inside – slips the gun into his belt and a flask of holy water into his hip pocket, and goes inside.

The first thing he spots is footprints. There's one set, clearly several days old from the dust that's re-settled over them, from a woman's high-heeled shoes. That'll be Kate. There are a few more, not as old as Kate's but not new either. Maybe police, maybe just curious onlookers. It doesn't matter.

What does matter is the last set of footprints, a _fresh_ set of footprints. He can see dampness glistening on them. It's probably from the grass: he didn't see a car parked outside, so whoever left these footprints either hiked up from the town or parked a fair distance away.

Whoever left these footprints might still be inside. It's unlikely to be a ghost, but Sam Winchester knows better than anyone that ghosts aren't the only things that can kill you.

He releases the safety on his gun and steps slowly into the house.

* * *

Dean is startled from the book, although he doesn't know what it was that startled him. He stays unmoving for a moment, head cocked, listening to the silence.

Then he hears it. Downstairs. A soft creak, like an old floorboard shifting under the weight of someone trying very hard to move quietly. Dean gets to his feet, his hand going to the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

He moves swiftly, noiselessly, crossing the distance to the door in a couple of strides. He waits just inside the doorway and listens again. There's nothing. He steps out to the landing. Still nothing. Dean wants to take a deep breath, but with all the dust in the air he's afraid that'll make him sneeze. He settles for a shake of his head to clear it, and then he makes his way down the stairs.

About halfway down, he spots the man. He's got his back to Dean, crouched over something on the floor.

That's all the opening Dean needs. He goes down a couple more steps, gauges the distance with his eye, and then launches himself at the other man. There's a grunt of surprise and Dean manages to get him down, but he recovers remarkably quickly, shoving Dean off him and reaching for the gun he dropped.

Dean's on him again before he can grab it. He kicks the gun out of reach as he pounces on the man, trying to pin him down. It's harder than he expected, and for a few minutes they're rolling on the ground in the dark, neither making any sound above a soft gasp. It's strange, as though they've made a pact to be as quiet as they can.

Dean doesn't waste time worrying about the strangeness, though: he can tell this guy is bigger than he is, so he doesn't want to give him any _more_ advantages.

He manages to get the man on his stomach and get on top of him. That holds him for a minute. Then he throws Dean off. But instead of getting up right away, the man stops for a split-second to catch his breath. That's all Dean needs: he scrambles back toward the window and gets to his feet, pulling out his gun and pointing it at the man.

"Get up."

The man pushes himself up to his elbows. His hair is falling over his face. There's an odd swooping feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach and he doesn't know what it is, doesn't know what's causing it, but his subconscious seems to be taking over his motor functions and he feels his grip on the gun slackening.

He tightens it, releasing the safety. The click is loud in the near-perfect stillness, and the other man flinches.

"Get up," Dean repeats roughly.

This time the man stiffens. Dean thinks he hears a whispered, "Oh, thank _God_!" Before he can demand an explanation, the guy is on his feet and an achingly familiar voice is saying, "Dean?"

"No," Dean hisses. "No. You don't get to do this. I don't know who you are, but you don't get to do this to me."

The thing in front of him – _it's not a man, it can't be a man_ – looks like Sam, the way it said his name sounded like Sam, but it isn't Sam, it can't be Sam, Sam's dead and in hell and Dean promised not to try to get him out and he kept his promise even though it broke his heart every time he thought about it and –

This. Can't. Be. Sam.

"Dean, it's me."

He's certain he never made a deal with Mia. It can't be Sam. It _isn't_ Sam. It's a shifter or a demon or something else trying to freak him out – _and it's doing a damn good job, too_ – but Dean isn't going to let it win, not even if it's wearing Sammy's face and it's going against every screaming instinct to keep that gun up.

"Dean, really. Look. _Christo. Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fertis_ –"

"All right, shut up," Dean says. His voice is still rough, because he forces it to be, because he wants to hide the glimmer of hope that, despite himself, he's beginning to feel. It can't be Sam. "Get your hands on your head and come here – slowly."

The man – Dean can't think of him as Sam, not yet – complies, walking toward Dean with small, cautious, steps. When he's an arm's-length away, Dean barks, "Fine, stop."

His eyes never leaving the man, Dean reaches into his hip pocket and pulls out a flask. He fumbles it open one-handed, stretches out, and empties the contents on the man's head.

Nothing happens. Dean stares, not wanting to doubt, not daring to hope.

"Salt?" the man asks. "I've left some outside."

"Damn it, Sam –"

Dean cuts himself off, but the word is out and he's said it. He swallows, wishes he could shut his eyes, but he doesn't dare lower his guard that long. It has to be Sam, but it can't be, and he doesn't know what to do or think. If he lets himself believe – if he lets himself believe he's got his brother back and Sam gets snatched away again, Dean knows he isn't going to survive.

He looks at the man, who says nothing, just stands there with water dripping from his hair.

And then he gives Dean the _look_.

Dean and John always called it the _look_, the look that first showed up when Sam was a toddler holding up his arms to be picked up, the look that made him seem like a lost puppy and got him out of trouble with teachers and principals and school wardens and for all Dean knows even his professors in college, the look that, even when Sam grew up, Dean could never say no to.

The _look _is all Sam. No shapeshifter or demon has ever been able to copy it.

Dean isn't quite sure how it happens, but the next thing he knows the gun's tucked in his waistband again and he's being hugged so tightly he feels like his ribs might crack, but he doesn't complain because he's got his brother in a grip just as tight. They're having the grandmother of all chick-flick moments in the middle of a house that might be haunted, and any second those college kids are going to come in and catch them at it – _Good luck persuading them that you're my brother, Sam!_ – but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that his arms are full of baby brother, warm and solid and _alive_.

Sam's clinging to him like he'll never let go. Dean can understand – Dean doesn't want to let go either. But he knows he has to, Sammy has to, because as the first shocked delight passes he remembers what he read in that journal upstairs, and he knows that if they don't get moving quickly this might be the last chick-flick moment they'll ever have.

Still Dean hesitates to spoil the moment. But then he hears Sam's soft breath next to his ear, and he _knows_ he has to do it. Sam's back, and he'll figure out how later. Right now, he needs Sam to _stay_ back, and that means wasting the ghost and getting the hell out.

"Sammy," Dean says, shaking him gently. "C'mon, kiddo, we can finish this later. Let's get rid of this son of a bitch and go home."

Sam nods and pulls away, and letting him do that is the _hardest_ thing that Dean's ever done. Now that Sam's back, every big-brother instinct that Dean's got wants to keep him close, and Dean can't help being afraid that the second he breaks contact entirely Sam will vanish.

Sam seems to understand, because he says quietly, "Dean, I'm _here_."

Dean nods, then, and lets Sam step away from him and retrieve his gun.

"We have to do a salt-and-burn," Dean says, his voice nearly breaking when he realizes he has someone to say that to again. "We need to figure out where he's buried."

"Behind the house," Sam replies without missing a beat. Dean gapes at him, and he adds, "It was in the papers. What, you didn't do any research?"

"Why would I? That's _your_ job." And it's so _hard_ not to burst into tears of relief, but Dean manages to hold himself in and mumble, "You got any idea exactly where the grave is, geek boy? 'Behind the house' covers a lot of ground."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Come on. You got a shovel in the Impala?"

"How did you know I brought the Impala?"

"I know you, Dean. And because you didn't bother to do any research, _you_ can do the digging."

Dean almost laughs.

But it's never that easy, and just as Sam is at the threshold the door slams shut in his face.

* * *

There. I did it. *g*

What do you think? Please let me know!


	8. Haunted

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I've not had time to reply to any of them yet, but I'll do it tonight. (And, since that seems to be the consensus, post the rest before I go.) ;-)

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Haunted**

"_Sam!_"

Sam nods minutely to show that he's all right. He takes a step back into the room, pulling out his gun. Dean does the same. They back slowly into the centre of the room, the instinct of years helping them finish with their backs to each other so they can sweep the entire perimeter between them.

Their first warning that something's going to happen is when the ragged curtains whip across the windows, effectively shutting out most of the moonlight. Dean knows that he should be afraid – spirits seldom go down without a fight – but he isn't. He's got a gun in his hand and his brother at his back, and this feels so right that _nothing_ can upset him now.

And a moment later Dean curses himself for thinking that, because the one thing that _can_ upset him happens. There's a sudden rushing sound and Sam is flung away from him into the wall.

"Sam!"

Sam scrambles to his feet, only to get thrown back again. Dean swears, looking around for something to shoot, but there's nothing in the room.

"Sam, stay still! Don't move!" Dean snaps. Sam obeys; Dean knows it probably goes against every subconscious impulse for his brother to just lie there in a heap waiting for the spirit to drop something on him, but evidently Sam's nearly-blind trust in him wasn't _entirely_ destroyed by the mess their lives went through. The thought makes him smile grimly and tighten his grip on his gun. "I know what it is. I think. I found a diary upstairs."

"What?" Sam asks. "Please tell me it's good news."

"Is it _ever_ good news, Sammy? Listen, this guy seems to have been more than half crazy. There was a reason nobody trusted him: he was a doctor, one of the few in the area in those days and he attended on a lot of childbirths –"

Dean cuts himself off as Sam is picked up and flung to the other side of the room. Sam gets to his feet and this time Dean doesn't stop him, just goes on explaining while Sam looks around for something to use as a weapon.

"But when his own wife had her first child she had some kind of problem, he couldn't do anything about it, she and the baby both died."

"Tough," Sam grunts, grabbing an iron poker with his left hand. His right still holds his gun, cocked and ready to fire. "Let me guess: after that no pregnancy or childbirth that he attended ever went well? Rocketing rates of miscarriage and infant mortality?"

"Yeah, but that's not the most important part. Sam, it sounds like he made a deal to bring his wife back."

Sam stops short and stared at Dean. "You mean a please-God-I'll-never-drink-again kind of deal, or a kiss-the-crossroads-demon kind of deal?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"He was a hunter?" Sam asks incredulously. There's a rippling in the air and he swipes at it with the crowbar. It dissipates harmlessly. "Or a psychic or something like that."

"I don't know what he was, Sam, and I don't know what the conditions of his deal were, but after a few seemingly healthy women and newborns died under his care people started to get suspicious. That's when they drove him out of town, and he wound up here. Nobody dared to go near him except this one couple who did for him. In one of his last entries he says –"

"The woman was pregnant?"

Dean nods. "Bingo."

"So they _did_ kill him."

"We have to do a salt-and-burn," Dean says. "_Now._ There's a bunch of kids coming up here and they'll be here any minute."

"All right, let's go."

Dean starts for the door. He's about to open it, but stops short when he sees a form through the cracks in the ancient wood. It's a man, dressed in a frock-coat and carrying a small black bag.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, "I think he can leave the house."

"I'll bet he can, Dean. His grave's outside. He's probably bound to stay within the property line."

"Well, what do we do?"

"There's probably another door through the kitchen. I'll keep him distracted here, you go find his grave. It should be right by the house, under the kitchen window. It was a shallow grave, won't be more than a couple of feet deep."

"What? I'm not leaving you alone with this thing!"

"Dean, one of us has to keep it occupied or we're never going to get out!"

"Well, why can't I keep it occupied?"

"Because you're shovelling!" Dean glares at him, and Sam says, "We could always try rock-paper-scissors."

Dean's about to pull older-brother rank and send Sam out, but then he remembers that conversation with his brother sitting on the hood of the Impala, when Dean acknowledged that Sam could make his own decisions. Dean also remembers that his not trusting Sam to look out for himself was at least partly what got them into that whole screwed-up mess to begin with.

"Fine!" he snaps. Sam, who has clearly been expecting an argument, looks shocked. "But if you let it hurt you," Dean growls, "I'm going to whip your ass. You hear me?"

Sam nods, waits for a heartbeat, then steps past Dean and throws open the front door. Dean hears an inhuman shriek, an exclamation from Sam, the sharp sound of iron hitting – _something_ – but he doesn't wait. They don't have time to waste. He backs away to the middle of the room again, making no threatening moves, letting Sam draw the spirit's attention. When the commotion gets so loud that he can't even hear himself think, he slips out.

He runs to the car – it isn't _that_ far away, just well-hidden – grabs the shovel, and, on the way, back, picks up the salt and gas that Sam's left outside.

He starts digging, fast. He can hear the spirit's shrieks getting more intense: maybe it can sense someone digging up its grave, but Sam's yelling at it, throwing things, and it's confused. It's also deciding to go for the nearest threat, which means nothing disturbs Dean at his work.

Dean digs harder. He is _not_ going to lose his brother to a stupid _ghost_, not when he's only just got him back.

He almost sobs with relief when the edge of the shovel strikes something hard. Sam was right: it _is_ a shallow grave. He uncovers the coffin with a few swipes, breaks it open, and starts salting the bones.

He hears a pained grunt from Sam, louder in his ears than all the ghost's shrieking, and he nearly drops the bag of salt. With trembling fingers, he empties the rest of it into the coffin, opens the can of gasoline and douses the remains liberally, and throws a match into the hole. It takes a moment for the flame to catch, a moment while the noise continues unabated inside and Dean stands with his heart thudding like it's going to burst. Then the spirit's shrieking fades to a soft wail, and finally nothing.

"Sam!"

"I'm fine! I'm coming."

His brother's voice sounds weak, but before Dean can break through the wall in his haste to get to him, Sam himself appears in the doorway.

"Sammy! You OK?"

Sam nods, but he doesn't look OK, he doesn't protest the nickname, and when Dean puts a hand under his elbow to support him he doesn't make a fuss.

Dean is terrified.

"Sammy?"

"'Mfine, Dean," Sam mumbles. "Just tired."

"Let's go, then."

"We have to wait till the body's burnt and put out the fire. Might set the house burning otherwise – the grave's too shallow."

"So what?"

"_Dean!_"

"All right, all right," Dean says, sighing. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Don't want to. It's creepy to sit next to an open grave."

"It's _creepy_?" Dean can't believe he's just heard that from the man who was brought up a hunter, who's faced down angels and demons and defeated Lucifer himself. "Are you crazy? You can barely stay on your feet!"

"You'll catch me if I fall."

Damn it. How does the kid _always_ manage to do this to him? This time he didn't even have to break out the puppy-dog eyes.

"Meet Dean Winchester," Dean mutters. "World's easiest pushover. I swear, Sammy, Michael wanted me to be his vessel all he really had to do was persuade _you_ to get me to do it. I guess we're lucky he never figured that out."

* * *

"Home, Sammy?" Dean asks, when the body is gone and they've thrown earth over the last embers.

"Left my stuff in the motel," Sam mumbles drowsily.

"We can pick it up tomorrow. There wasn't much, anyway, from what I saw."

"You were there?"

"I do _some_ research, you know. And you're getting soft, little brother, if you never realized that someone had been in and searched the place." As he's talking, Dean gets an arm around Sam and guides him in the direction of the car. "You're lucky it was me, huh? Are you hurt, or just tired?"

"I'll have a few bruises, but that's it."

"I'll take a look at them. By the way, what name did you give in the motel?"

"Don't remember."

"_Sam!_"

"Sorry," Sam says, sounding so much like the six-year-old version of himself that Dean doesn't have the heart to tease him.

"That's all right, Sammy... Right, we're here."

Dean props Sam against the Impala, supporting him with one hand and opening the passenger-side door with the other. The next movements are so ingrained that they come without thought. One hand on Sam's shoulder and one on top of his head, holding it down so he doesn't bump it as he gets in, letting Sam lean on him while he swings his legs up, and finally settling Sam against the seat back and drawing away to shut the door. Sam complies, bending when he needs to, letting Dean manhandle him into the car.

Dean gets into the driver's seat and smiles. This just feels _right_.

"Yeah, I know, baby," he croons, patting the Impala's dashboard. "You're happy to see Sammy, too, aren't you?"

"_Dude_," comes Sam's automatic, half-hearted protest.

Dean chuckles. "You're too sleepy to appreciate it, Sam, but my baby's welcoming you back."

He pulls out, laughing softly when Sam slumps against the window and his breathing evens out. On the way down he sees the kids driving up the hill. He honks and waves at them as he goes by.

"We there yet?" Sam mumbles, half-woken by the horn.

"No, Sammy, go back to sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."

Sam nods and settles down again.

The drive back takes a little longer because Dean's going carefully, trying not to whip around corners or jerk to any sudden stops that might wake Sam. His brother does look tired, and Dean wonders when he last slept.

Actually, Dean wonders a lot of things, foremost among them being how Sam came back – not that he's complaining – but they can wait.

He finally pulls up outside his cabin. Sam starts and opens his eyes, looking around in bewilderment.

"We're home, Sammy," Dean says. "Hang on, I'll come get you out."

Sam protests, and begins to fumble with the handle. Dean ignores him and gets out. By the time he's gone around to the passenger side, Sam has the door open, but he can't seem to figure out what to do next. Dean _hopes_ it's just exhaustion.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's go indoors, OK?" He reaches for Sam; getting his brother out of the car has always been easier than getting him into it. He helps Sam up, supports him for a moment while he finds his feet, and is relieved to note that Sam _does_ find his feet, needing no more than a guiding hand on his elbow. "You hungry?"

"No."

"Right, then, bed it is." He lets go of Sam long enough to unlock the front door and push it open. "You'd better be able to manage stairs, Sammy, because there's no way I'm hauling your ass up them on my own."

"Dean, I'm _tired_, not an invalid."

"Could've fooled me." Dean pulls Sam's arm around his shoulders and waits until his brother has grabbed the banister with his free hand. Sam glares, but he doesn't shove Dean off, so he probably needs the support. "Up we go, kiddo."

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	9. Help

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I still haven't had time for review replies, but I thought you'd rather have the rest of the story before I go than the replies now. I promise I'll get to them as soon as I can. *g*

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Help**

Dean lowers Sam into a chair and considers what to do next. Sam's stuff is all here, in one of the cupboards – Dean couldn't bear to get rid of even a sock – and while he expects his brother will want new clothes, these will do until they can go shopping. But Sam looks so tired – he probably just wants to go to bed.

Standing in the middle of a room – or, for that matter, _anywhere_ – wondering what's best for Sam is such a _familiar_ feeling that Dean is suddenly weak-kneed with relief. He didn't let himself think about it while they were still in the haunted house – he hasn't let himself think about it for the past sixteen _months_, because he would have fallen to pieces if he had – but now he can't seem to help it. Sammy was gone and Dean thought he was gone forever, suffering under Lucifer's hands forever, but now he's _back_, and sure there are shadows in his eyes but it's nothing a big brother can't fix.

Sammy's back.

Sammy's _back_.

"Dean?"

That's Sammy's voice saying his name, something Dean always thought he'd never hear again. And now Dean can't keep the tears back.

"_Dean!_"

Sam sounds terrified, and he probably is – Dean never breaks down. When he feels like he's dying inside, when he feels like his world is falling apart, he lashes out. Dean doesn't cry. Ever.

Except that he _is_ crying.

"Dean, it's OK. It's OK. I'm here. I'm staying."

Then there are arms around him. Sammy, who until a minute ago could barely stand up, is right there in front of him, so close Dean can smell his aftershave and the lingering scent of smoke in his jacket. Dean isn't leaning into his brother – he _isn't_; it's just that Sammy's right there and he's refusing to get out of the way. And, fine, maybe his head is nestled in the hollow between Sam's neck and shoulder, but that's only because the kid is so _freaking_ tall that he can't help it. It's not like Dean has anywhere else he can go.

Now Dean really is sobbing, because with Sammy here he can let himself feel all the grief of the days when he wasn't.

Sam's rubbing his back and talking to him. Dean doesn't know what he's saying, but he doesn't sound scared anymore, only comforting. Dean feels as though it's wrong – his baby brother shouldn't have to comfort him, not when he's just endured God-knows-what in hell, but he can't make himself move. It's because he's tired that he keeps his head on Sam's shoulder, not because he doesn't _want_ to lift it, and sure as hell not because the nonsense that Sam is whispering at him is actually making him feel better and he doesn't want it to stop.

When he's finally managed to get his emotions under control, Sam gives his shoulder a last squeeze and asks, "Ready for bed?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sam lowers him to the edge of his bed – Dean always takes the one nearest the door, and Sam remembers that – tugs off his boots, and pushes him down. There are sheets being pulled up and tucked around him. Dean frowns. Sam usually only does this for him when he's sick. Does Sam think he's sick?

Then, for some reason, Dean remembers the woman at the bar... the demon who offered to make a deal with him.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How long have you been out of the cage?"

"A few days... You didn't make it exactly easy to find you, you know?"

"She was trying to trick me," Dean mumbles, regretting it instantly. It's a sign of how tired he is that he lets that slip. He hopes Sam won't notice.

"Who was trying to trick you?"

Damn pre-law student.

"Woman at the bar trying to get me into bed." It's worth a shot.

"Dean."

"She _was_."

"_Dean._"

Dean sighs. "She was a demon... She offered me a deal to spring you. But you were already out by then."

"She _was_ trying to trick you, Dean."

"I couldn't have made the deal anyway. I didn't have what she wanted. But I wouldn't have done it!" Dean adds quickly. He needs Sam to know that. "I wouldn't have broken my promise to you even if I could have."

"Dean, it's OK. I know. It's OK."

"It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Sammy."

"I know. I'm sorry." There's a pause and then Sam asks, "What did she want, Dean?"

"The amulet... the one you gave me that Christmas when we were kids." Dean's eyes are filling up again. "God, I'm so _sorry_, Sammy." Dean blinks back his tears and looks at Sam. His brother's face is unreadable. "Sam, really!" Dean starts to sit up, only to have Sam push him down firmly. "I should never have done that, no matter how mad I was –"

"Dean, it's OK," Sam says, and he doesn't sound angry.

"No, it isn't. Sammy –"

"_Dean._ Listen to me. It's fine. Everything's fine. Here." Sam's hand is over Dean's. Something hard and metallic drops into Dean's palm and his fingers are closed around it. Dean doesn't need to see it to know what it is, and he feels like his world's been turned on its head today. He also realizes that Sam must have picked up the amulet after he dropped it. "But next time you chuck in the trash," Sam goes on, "I'm not giving it back to you."

The tone is light, but the words make Dean feel even guiltier.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

He hears a soft breath. Then Sam says, "I shouldn't have said that. It's OK, Dean."

"Sam –"

"No, Dean, it's OK. Really." Sam sighs. "Look, we both did a lot of stuff we shouldn't have done, and maybe some of it was because of all those sons of bitches interfering with us, but some of it _was_ our fault. But it doesn't _matter_ now, Dean. We made mistakes – we both made mistakes. But it's over now. You're here. I'm here. I can think of plenty of things I'd rather do than argue about what was whose fault. OK?"

Dean nods. "OK... God, I've missed you, Sam."

Dean expects his brother to laugh at him or call him a girl, but Sam only smiles and thumps his shoulder.

"Go to sleep, Dean. I'll be here in the morning."

Dean mumbles agreement and shuts his eyes. A split-second later he opens them again and points to the bed opposite. "That's yours. Not for girls. Never had a girl in it. Don't go sleeping on the couch because you think I might have –"

"Dean, I _know_. Go to sleep."

"Sammy –"

"I'll knock you out if you don't."

Chuckling, Dean buries his head in his pillow. _That's _the Sam he remembers.

* * *

Sam sits on the edge of Dean's bed until his older brother's breathing evens out in sleep. When he's sure Dean is out, he gets up and goes to a chair by the window.

Sam's been reacting better than Dean, but that's mainly because he's had time to get used to the fact that he's free. He knows that it isn't going to be as easy as it seems now. He doesn't really want to go to law school anymore – after everything that's happened, he doesn't think he could actually be happy billing by the minute to encourage criminals to plea-bargain.

He would probably never have been happy doing that.

But he doesn't know what he _does_ want, and, more to the point, he doesn't know what _Dean_ wants. He's got no idea what happened in the sixteen months he was in hell – all he saw was that one glimpse when Dean was still at Lisa's – but Dean probably has plans for himself that don't involve having his kid brother hanging around all the time.

Meanwhile, Sam's still afraid to sleep.

He's just wondering if he should go see if Dean has any books worth reading when the light flickers. Sam curses – not _now_ – and looks out the window.

Then he shakes his head. The good part is that it isn't a demon waiting outside. The bad part is that it's Gabriel, and Sam can't remember that many occasions when random angelic visitations were cause for celebration.

Gabriel sees him and beckons him down.

Sam hesitates – he doesn't want Dean to wake up and find him missing; God knows what that would do to him in his present state of mind. But his brother is fast asleep, and maybe if he goes down he can get find out what the angel is after and get rid of him quickly.

* * *

"What do you want?"

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "That's a nice welcome."

Sam sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry. Look, I'm grateful to you for helping me – _really_ grateful – but why did you? I didn't know you guys did things like that. And why are you here now?"

"A fair question," Gabriel admits. "I was expecting it the last time I saw you, but I think you were too disorientated to realize much. I helped you because... Well, it wasn't _entirely_ unpleasant knowing you and your brother, primitive though you are. Angels pay their debts, Sam."

"Oh... And you came here to tell me that?"

"I came here to see if there was anything else you wanted to know."

Sam nods, a frown forming on his face. Now that the immediate urgency of finding Dean is over, he _does_ have questions.

"Why didn't Michael or Lucifer every try to take the amulet from me? I'm sure there's nothing they wanted more than to get out."

"To begin with, the amulet wouldn't have worked unless you'd given it up willingly. But that wouldn't have stopped them from torturing you until you did, and they probably would have done if it could have helped them."

"You said that earlier."

"_Think_, Sam. How do you think Adam escaped the cage?"

Sam stares at Gabriel, remembering _that_ day, remembering Dean's bloody face and Michael in Adam's body, remembering falling into the pit and Michael trying to stop him. And then he understands.

"Adam was never there." He's surprised he hadn't realized that earlier, but in the first few years the torture Lucifer and Michael dreamt up drove most other things from his mind. "He wasn't there because... He wasn't even in his body when Michael fell."

"Good. You're getting there. Adam's soul was already in heaven – Michael keeps his promises, too. The cage couldn't hold his body in any case. It's not a physical cage."

"It held me."

"It held you because you were _in_ your body. It held your mind, Sam, maybe your soul. Even I don't understand exactly how it works; Michael was the one who made it."

"But all the fire?"

"Fire? That's what you saw?"

"You didn't see it? You were there!"

Gabriel shrugs. "I have no idea what a mortal would have seen. _I_ didn't seeanything. I only _felt_ the cage."

"So it's a mental cage – or metaphysical or whatever. That still doesn't answer my question. Couldn't Lucifer and Michael have got themselves out the same way I did?"

"That's the thing about _metaphysical_ cages, Sam. Only mortals can escape them. It isn't easy, and you have to know how, or be very lucky, or have an angel helping you out... But it's possible. That's because you have a physical body, something that _can_ escape the cage."

"My physical body was in the cage."

"Not exactly, but... You could see it that way. It's simple enough, Sam. Your body was there because your mind was there, and your mind was there because your body was there. Adam's mind _wasn't_ there, so his body wasn't, either."

"But Michael had a body. So did Lucifer. I saw them."

"No, they didn't. Your mind just... how do I explain... it _conjured_ bodies for your eyes to see." Gabriel sighs at Sam's blank look. "I think it's a bit past mortal comprehension, Sam. It's enough for you to understand that you _could_ get yourself out, but Michael and Lucifer can't. At least... I don't think so." He smiles wryly. "I'll be _very_ surprised if Michael doesn't know some other way out. He's probably just waiting for the right time."

"Right time?" Sam yelps. "Like next week?"

"Honestly, Sam!" Gabriel sounds exasperated. "No, _not_ next week. _Next_ _week_ is an irrelevant concept when you've lived almost since time began and you're going to live forever. I mean sometime before the end of eternity. Quite possibly your civilization won't exist by then."

"Oh."

"So you needn't worry about it. I really came to warn you that Castiel will soon know that you are no longer in hell, and you can expect him to come looking for you."

"Cas? Why?"

"To ask for help."

* * *

Dean starts awake from a dream of Sam writhing in fiery agony and screaming his name. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, panting, heart still aching.

Then, slowly, memory comes trickling back.

Sam's back. Sam's alive. Sam's here. Sam's not in hell, he's _here_.

Just to reassure himself, Dean turns to the bed beside his.

It's empty.

* * *

What did you think? Please review!


	10. Home

**Author's Note: **Here we are at the end... Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me until this point.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Home**

Dean's first thought is that it was all a dream. Nothing was real. Sam's still in hell. He didn't get hugged and tucked in by his baby brother – right, maybe that part he _wants_ to forget – and the world's still all wrong.

Before he can give in to despair, though, he realizes he has something clutched in his hand. Something small and hard and _perfect_ that he hasn't had for a very long time. He tightens his grip.

Then he hears voices outside.

Voices. Sammy? Sammy willingly talking to another human being in the middle of the night?

His first, traitorous thought is that it's a demon again – it's Ruby again, and Sam's lying to him and sneaking off behind his back when they've not even been together again for twenty-four hours – but then reason catches up with him. Sam was right. They both made mistakes. He'll go a step further and say they're both going to make a lot more mistakes before they're through. But this is one mistake he's sure Sam isn't going to make again.

Dean considers going to the window, but decides against it. He has to trust Sam – he has to, because he's determined that there are some mistakes he's not going to make again, either. He has to trust that if Sam went outside to talk to someone without waking him, there was a reason for it.

Of course, that doesn't mean he's not going to grab a gun and sit on his bed in the dark, all set to hurtle down the stairs and outside if it sounds like Sam's in trouble.

It's not long before the voices stop. A minute later, Dean hears Sam's footsteps on the stairs. They're slower than they should be – his brother _is_ tired, and from the look of the neatly-made bed, he didn't even _try_ to get any sleep.

That's something they _are_ going to have words about.

But first things first. Sam sounds like he needs help. Dean slips out of the room. He's just in time to grab Sam's arm before he can stumble on the top step.

Then Sam's back in the bedroom, and Dean is ignoring his protests and stripping him of his jacket and boots.

"You said I was a grown man!" Sam protests, turning the _eyes_ on him.

"No," Dean says calmly, immune to the even most melting of Sam's puppy-dog looks when his brother's health and safety are involved. "I said you were an _overgrown_ man. I don't remember _ever_ saying that I was going to stop watching out for you. And, yeah, maybe I have to let you make your own decisions about _some _things, but this isn't one of them." Dean follows that up with a firm look, so Sam will know he's not joking. "I don't care how old you are, Sammy. If you expect me to watch you fall to pieces and do nothing about it... Well, it's not happening, that's all."

"I'm not falling to pieces!"

"Sam." Sam sighs and lets Dean shove him into bed. "What's wrong, Sammy? Nightmares?" Sam's woebegone look is all the answer he needs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You looked like you needed to sleep."

Dean knew it would be some self-sacrificing idiocy like that. After all, this is the man who voluntarily threw himself into Lucifer's cage.

He realizes that, while the thought of that still hurts, it isn't the agonizing, all-encompassing pain that it used to be, not now that Sammy's back.

"So now that you're all grown up I'm not allowed to decide whether helping my little brother is more important to me than a few hours' sleep? You can make your own decisions but I can't? Is that it?"

"What? _No!_ I just... I thought... I didn't want you to..." The words are slurring into each other as Sam trails off, looking up at him helplessly. Dean shakes his head in exasperation. He was hoping to save the talking for the morning, but clearly that's not going to work.

"Move over."

Sam sidles obligingly, and Dean sits on the bed with his back to the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He's only doing it because it'll be easier to have this talk if he doesn't have to look Sam in the eye, _not_ because he's hoping his presence will soothe Sam enough to let him sleep. Eventually. After Dean's finished talking to him.

"Everything got so messed up, didn't it, Sammy?" Dean asks, staring at his feet. "And you're right: at least some of it was our fault. But we can't let it happen again, and that means no making the same mistakes we did last time. That means I trust you to know what's good for you... sometimes, at least. That means _you_ let me look out for you, because that's my job and I've had a lot of practice and I'm pretty good at it. It means when you're not feeling good, or something's wrong, you tell me about it and let me at least _try_ to fix it. And it means we don't lie to each other or try to hide things anymore. Ever. OK?"

"'Msorry," Sam mumbles.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I just don't want you to do it again." Dean hesitates, then hooks an arm around his baby brother and pulls him up just enough to let him tuck himself into Dean's side, head resting on his shoulder. At Sam's amused look, he scowls and says, "I'm not having a chick-flick moment! I just want a pillow and I don't feel like getting up to get mine, so I might as well take yours."

Fortunately, Sam manages to muffle his snicker in Dean's shirt, so Dean can pretend he hasn't heard it.

Besides, there's still the little matter of the nightmares. Dean isn't sure how to handle that, but since it's Sam, he supposes getting him to talk about it is best.

"You going to tell me what your nightmares are like, Sammy?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yeah, I do."

There's a long pause, and Dean wonders if Sam's fallen asleep. He hasn't, though: his breath is hitching slightly. Dean waits. When Sam finally speaks, he sounds so much like the child he used to be that it almost breaks Dean's heart.

"It's dark," Sammy says at last, speaking more to Dean's top button than to Dean. "And hot. And you're not there."

Dean knows that Sam's not telling him everything, not by a long shot, but he knows he's heard the most important thing, and maybe that's enough for now. Later he'll get the rest of the story out of Sam. But right now, right here, he has something he can deal with.

"I'm here now," he points out. "It's like you said, Sammy. You're here. I'm here. That's enough."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, this morning I thought I had big plans to do nothing, but there's been a bit of a change and now I guess I'm going to sit here till you fall asleep."

"I meant later."

"I'm going to sleep, too."

"_Dean._"

Dean sighs. "Later when, Sam?"

"Tomorrow... Next week... Whenever."

"I don't know... Why? There something you want to do?" Dean frowns. "Who were you talking to outside, Sam?"

"Gabriel."

"_Gabriel!_ He's _alive_?"

"Yeah... He was the one who told me how to get out." Sam pats the amulet, now hanging around Dean's neck. "That helped."

"Is there something I should know about the amulet, Sam?"

"T'morrow," Sam mumbles, snuggling closer to Dean.

"OK," Dean agrees. "Tomorrow." He rubs Sam's back absent-mindedly. "What did Gabriel want?"

"Think he wanted to check up on us. And said... Castiel... might come looking for help."

"_Cas?_ He's the new president of heaven, or whatever it is. What does he need us for?"

"Don't know... Exorcisms, maybe? What're we going to do?"

And that, too, is a question Dean can answer.

"I'll tell you, Sammy. Right now you're going to sleep, and you're not going to have any nightmares because I'm right here with you. In the morning you're going to tell me what happened down there, and what exactly Gabriel told you, and then we're going to figure out what to do next. Together. As for Cas looking for help... Well, we'll figure out what to do about _that_ when it happens. And no matter what, we're going to be all right."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You didn't stay with Lisa."

Dean swallows. He's been hoping that wouldn't come up, but since when does Sammy forget things like that? The kid doesn't even _need_ law school.

"I know. I couldn't. I'm sorry –"

"_Don't_." Sam shifts and resettles himself. He's restless, but not as much as he was, and his movements are slowing. "Don't. Dean, I understand. I thought it was what you wanted, or I wouldn't have asked you to go to her."

"I thought so too, Sammy. And don't get me wrong, Lisa's nice, Ben's a great kid... But that's not _me_, you know. There's only so many report cards a guy can sign before he goes crazy. It wasn't fair to Lisa _or_ the kid. They deserve somebody who _really_ wants that apple-pie life, not somebody who thought he wanted it but doesn't and is just hanging on to it because he's lost what he really _does_ want."

Sam smiles. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I missed you."

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

There's a minute's silence. Then, "Dean?"

"_What_, Sam?"

"You still haven't taken the pillow."

"Sammy, if you don't stop talking and start sleeping this _minute_..."

Dean waits until Sam's chuckles have faded and his breathing is slow and regular. Then he reaches carefully into Sam's pocket and slides out his cell phone.

It beeps as he flips it open, and he curses, but Sam doesn't stir.

"And you try to tell me you're not tired," Dean mutters under his breath. "Damn it, Sam, why do you have to go and buy the most complicated model in the store?"

When Dean finally works out how to unlock the phone, he punches in his number, saves it, and lists it as the primary emergency contact. No _way _Sammy's going to be stuck without a way to get hold of him again. He's about to drop the phone on the little table between the beds when he changes his mind and goes back to the contact list. He erases the name _Dean_, types in _My Awesome Big Brother_, and laughs. Sam's going to have something to say about that.

He sets it to speed dial 1. Just in case Sam forgets that part.

Then he relaxes, letting his head droop over Sam's, and shuts his eyes. His baby brother isn't the only one who's going to be sleeping without nightmares tonight.

* * *

The End

* * *

Although, as you can see, I've left myself a fair bit of room for a possible follow-up. ;-) Who was Mia and what did she want? Is Castiel going to show up and demand the amulet? And surely our boys are going to have to go through a _bit_ more angst before the past is truly behind them...

What did you think? Please let me know!


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